


Love is Whole

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, No beta we die like stregobor should have, Non-Graphic Violence, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: Ashwood of Daevon has just become the resident sorcerer of the little town of Lettenhove in Kerack, living alone and operating out of his shop. The bell jingles above his door every afternoon as a bright, blue eyed boy comes to him again, and again, and again; and suddenly Ashwood isn't as alone as he previously thought.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Love is Whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [concertconfetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/gifts).



> This fic is my love letter to Gideon, [concertconfetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti), who is the creator and owner of Ashwood of Daevon. Thank you, Gideon, for always allowing me to play with such a delightful character and explore new concepts using your character. Tell me how many times you cry, I want a tally at the end.

> “No one is ever quite ready; everyone is always caught off guard. Parenthood chooses you. And you open your eyes, look at what you’ve got, say, ‘oh, my gosh’, and recognize that of all the balls there ever were, this is  _ the one _ you should not drop. It’s not a question of choice.” -Marisa de los Santos

“Can you do magic?”

Ashwood looks up from the dying rosemary plant he’s currently attempting to revive after its pot fell to the ground and smashed a few days ago. He hadn’t heard the tinkle of the bell over his door, but the damned thing didn’t work half the time anyway. He’d bought it for cheap, as the storefront itself was a pretty penny. Who knew setting up shop as a hedge witch in a rinky dink town like Lettenhove would be so expensive?

He doesn’t see anyone across the counter, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously. He can’t be hearing voices already, he’s only just moved here. And he didn’t  _ think _ there were any ghosts in this store, it was constructed recently. On top of all of that, the voice sounded far too young to be involved in construction.

“Sir?”

Ashwood blinks and leans forward, peering over the edge of the counter. Stood before him, barely tall enough to be able to be called a boy and not a babe, is a tiny child. He can’t be more than seven years old, with long brown hair tied back in the traditional braids of Keracki culture, feathers and beads woven into the plaits. He has bright blue eyes and pale skin with freckles that positively cover his nose and cheeks and he wears the finery of young nobility.

“What are you doing all the way down there?” Ashwood teases, falling into an easy smile. He’s always liked children; the way they decipher the world so curiously, the lack of filter they tend to have as they speak their minds. Even their lies are so flimsy you can see right through them, and he appreciates the honesty left behind.

The boy looks puzzled as he blinks owlishly up at the mage, “I… I’m just not very tall yet, I guess.”

“What’s your name?”

“Julian.”

“Hello, Julian, I’m Ashwood,” Ashwood reaches over the counter to extend one brown hand to the boy to shake. Julian slides his smaller hand shyly into his, pumping it once. “And yes, I can do magic.”

Julian nods and carefully extracts his hand, as though he’s unsure if he’s removing it too soon or not soon enough. He flinches when Ashwood tucks his arm back up onto the counter, like he was expecting a strike. Ashwood frowns gently before clearing his throat, “What are you in the market for, boy?”

“I… I need a witcher.”

Ashwood raises both of his eyebrows, crossing his arms as he leans further forward, “And what on earth would you need a witcher for?”

Julian looks down at his feet, scuffing his small boots on the wooden floorboards as he digs his hands into his pockets and heaves a heavy sigh, as though the weight of the world is upon his tiny shoulders. “There’s a monster, Master Ashwood.”

“I would assume so, if you are in need of a witcher. What kind of monster?”

“I… I don’t know,” Julian admits, his pale cheeks flaming red, “but I heard the shepherds complaining about their sheeps going missing. My father doesn’t want to do anything about it, since nobody’s seen a monster. But…” Julian sniffs, and wipes his nose on his sleeve without regard for the lace sewn into the cuff, “But I don’t want the sheeps going missing anymore.”

“So you want to hire a witcher to investigate?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And why are you coming to me? I’m a sorcerer, not a witcher.”

“I figure… well, sir, I figure that  _ I _ don’t know any witchers, but… but you might since you’re older than me and know magic. Like how witchers know magic.”

Ashwood pretends to think, like his heart hadn’t already melted at this little boy who wants to help the shepherds and the sheep and figured that the best way to do it would be to talk to a sorcerer. “Just so you know, I do have a price. You’re in luck that I know a witcher, and I can summon him here.”

Julian looks up and a small, tenuous smile pulls at his lips, “I’ve got money! I can pay you, Master Ashwood, sir!”

“How much money do you have?”

Julian digs in his pockets and pulls out a single gold coin, two ducats, three acorns, and a silver button. He reaches up, grabbing the edge of the counter in one hand and dropping the items on top of it with the other as he pulls himself onto his tippy toes to see over the edge, “Is that enough?”

The sorcerer deliberates before taking the acorns and the silver button, sliding the actual currency back towards the boy. “That should be plenty.”

“So you’ll call the witcher?”

“I”ll call the witcher.” Ashwood nods.

“I just found that button today, so I hope you like it, Master Ashwood, sir.” Julian sounds so sad, his blue eyes so big as he looks longingly at the button on Ashwood’s side of the counter.

Ashwood can’t help it, his heart tugging at the huge puppy eyes Julian is looking at him with. “You know, I’m quite partial to left boots.”

“You are? I don’t like wearing boots very much. How come you only like the left ones?”

“Well, because gnomes steal all of my right ones.”

“Gnomes!”

“Yep,” Ashwood’s lips twitch, a smile threatening to break his serious facade, “So I need a new left boot. Any chance I could buy yours?”

Julian glances down at his shiny boots, clearly quite new and most likely uncomfortable. “How come… how come you need a left boot if they steal all your right ones?”

“Because I’ve got two left feet, of course.”

“That’s what mother says means you can’t dance,” Julian argues, “You don’t  _ really _ have two left feet, do you?”

Ashwood nods somberly, “I absolutely do. I can even show you if you want.”

“Prove it!”

Ashwood hops up on the counter and spins around, letting his feet hang on the other side as he removes his boots. He casts a quick glamour to make both of his feet look like left ones and he wiggles his toes once he’s removed his stockings. “See? Two left feet.”

“Wow!” Julian pokes the right-left foot, “Have you always had them like that?”

“No,” Ashwood sighs dramatically, “Alas, I was born with a right and a left foot, like you, but one day a kikimore  _ bit off _ my right one! I grew it back again, but my body got confused and grew me a second left one.”

“Is that true?” Julian demands, looking up with wide eyes, “You better be telling me the truth.”

“Cross my heart.”

Julian pouts at him for a moment before deciding that Ashwood is, in fact, telling him the truth and he brightens again. “Can I see you do the magic to call the witcher?”

“It’s not very interesting magic,” Ashwood warns as he pulls his socks back on, letting the glamour drop, “I’m just going to write him a letter and send it to him.”

“I can write! I can write! Can I write the letter?” Julian bounces on his toes, pulling himself up with the edge of the counter again so that his eyes are able to peer over the top.

“Are you able to write what I dictate?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, I can! Please, please,  _ please?” _

Ashwood pulls a piece of parchment out of a drawer along with a quill and inkpot, “Do you know how to use these? Or do you use pencils?”

“My father showed me how to use a quill because he said no son of his will use a poncy pencil!”

The mage pauses and blinks. That’s an odd thing to say, and an even odder thing to say to a small child. Pencils aren’t… 

He shakes his head and sets down the writing utensils, pulling over a stool and scooping Julian up to set him on the seat, “Alright. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Julian sticks the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully uncaps the inkpot and dips the tip of the quill in it, “Okay, ready.”

“‘Dear Eskel.’”

“Dear…  _ d-e- _ uhhh- _ a-r _ … how do you spell Eskel?”

“E-S-K-E-L.”

Ashwood spends the next twenty minutes helping Julian write the letter, spelling where the child asks for help and reading over it when it’s done. Sure, it would have taken a fraction of the time if Ashwood were to write it, but he wouldn’t have gotten to see the look of concentration on Julian’s little face: the way his eyes would scrunch and his nose would wrinkle, how his tongue would stick out and he would mumble beneath his breath. 

“Alright, let’s see how you did,” Ashwood picks up the letter, shaking the paper to dry the ink faster and then reading silently:

> _ dear Eskel, _
> 
> _ i howp this letur finds you well. i am in  _ _ letenhoove _ _ letenhove in kerack and hav gotten word of a monstur here from a boy namd Julian. he says he is in need of a wichur so the sheps arnt being stolen anymor. please let me no if you are  _ _ avay _ _ available to help. he is aybl to pay you. _
> 
> _ Lov,  
>  _ _ Ashwood _

“Love?” Ashwood raises an eyebrow curiously, as a heat rises to his cheeks.

“Mother says you should always sign letters to your friends with ‘love’ because you want them to love you, too,” Julian says primly.

Ashwood hums and rolls the letter up, tying it with a length of twine, and then pulling it down through the air as it’s engulfed in blue flame. Julian shouts in surprise, nearly tumbling off of the stool and then scrambling to sit on his knees and investigating the empty space the letter had previously occupied.

“Where’d it go?”

“I sent it with magic to Eskel,” Ashwood explains patiently, closing up the inkpot and cleaning the nib of the quill with a rag in his pocket, “We’ll hopefully hear back tomorrow.”

Julian nods and chews on his lip for a few moments, “How much money does it cost to hire a witcher?”

Ashwood pauses, not having expected this part. He figured, honestly, that he would pay Eskel for Julian; if the witcher even asks for payment. It seems that half the time he does jobs with or for Ashwood he doesn’t require any compensation. 

“We’ll let him figure out what the monster is first, okay? Different monsters cost different amounts of money.”

“That makes sense.” Julian carefully climbs off of the stool, “Oh! Did you still want to buy my left boot?”

“Absolutely,” Ashwood says seriously, pulling the acorns and silver button out of his pocket again, “How much will it cost.”

“Umm…” Julian puts his fingers on his mouth as he looks at the acorns and button, “Just the button, I think?” He looks up at Ashwood questioningly and the mage feels like he’s going to swoon.

“Sounds right to me.”

Julian nods and sits down on the ground, unlacing his boot and pulling it off with a small grunt and then handing it over in exchange for the silver button; which he promptly squirrels away into his pocket. He glances at the window and the setting sun outside, rubbing his nose and pushing the loose wisps of hair that have escaped his braids out of his face.

“I’ve gotta go home now, Master Ashwood, but I’ll come back tomorrow to see if Eskel replied!”

“Go safely, Julian,” Ashwood walks him to the door, making sure the bell jingles as he opens it and seeing the boy off. Julian skips down the street with one socked foot, pausing to look back and wave enthusiastically. Ashwood waves with a smile, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

He looks down at the three acorns in his hand, his smile growing. He’s a rich man today.

* * *

When Julian walks in the next day, Ashwood watches with amusement as the boy’s eyes widen in shock. Eskel sits across from the mage, the two of them enjoying some tea in front of the fire, a cockatrice’s severed head resting on a pile of stained linens to stop the blood from soaking into the wooden floors of Ashwood’s shop. He glances at Eskel, watching for the grimace and subconscious touch of facial scarring whenever the witcher smells fear, but Eskel looks just as shocked as Julian does.

The stunned silence is shattered by Julian’s loud proclamation of: “WOW! You’re a  _ real witcher! _ I didn’t know the stories my mother told were true!” Julian runs across the floor, wearing mismatched boots that thump on the wood rapidly to stand at Eskel’s knee. He easily lays his small hands on the witcher’s thigh as he pushes himself onto his tiptoes to get as close to Eskel’s face as possible, “You really  _ do _ have yellow eyes! And they look like a cat’s! That’s  _ so good!” _

Eskel looks vaguely panicked as he glances at Ashwood, his experience with enthusiastic children quite lacking. They’re usually scared off by the horrific scarring on the side of his face, that stops his eye from closing fully and bares his sharp teeth even with his lips sealed tight. “I, um--”

He needn’t worry about carrying a conversation, though, as Julian continues rapidly chattering, “I like your hair! It looks kinda like mine. And you have neat teeth, can I see them?” He reaches up to pull at Eskel’s chin, revealing his large canines, “ _ Woah! _ You’re like a dog! My dogs have teeth like yours and father takes them with him hunting but they’re not very good at it. They’re all too nice. Are you nice too? I bet you are, Master Ashwood is super nice, too so since you’re his friend I’d bet a whole honey bun on you being nice. Are you Master Eskel?”

“How do you know my…?” Eskel’s panic is abating as mild confusion takes its place. He’s watching Julian touch him without reservation, pushing and pulling and prodding with innocent curiosity and awe. To Ashwood’s amusement, Eskel looks like he might cry.

“Eskel, this is Julian. He wrote the letter about the sheep,” Ashwood grins, patting Eskel’s shoulder, “He’s the lord’s son.”

Julian stops trying to clamber onto Eskel’s knee and straightens up, squaring his small shoulders and raising his chin, “I am. And I heard the sheeps were going missing. And we need the sheeps! And they’re really cute.”

Eskel’s eyes have softened and he places his big hands under Julian’s arms, lifting to boy up to sit on his knee. “Thank you for contacting me, Julian. You’re right, sheep are very cute and very important to your town. There was a cockatrice stealing them and  _ eating them.” _

Julian gasps loudly, rocking forward with glee. “There  _ was?” _ He whispers, “Did you get it? Are the sheeps safe now?”

“Mhm,” Eskel nods and gestures to the head nearby, “That’s it. I took care of that nasty monster and the sheep are all safe again.”

“Oh, good,” Julian sighs dramatically in relief and both Eskel and Ashwood have to bite back their laughter. Julian then grabs Eskel’s hand, surprising the witcher once again, “You’ve got a lot of scars. Wanna see mine?”

“You’ve got scars already, little lord?” 

“A couple! They’re really cool looking,” Julian yanks his right boot off, still holding onto Eskel’s hand as he pulls his stocking off as well. He then points to a teeny tiny scar on the bottom of his small foot, “See! That one is from when I stepped on a piece of glass that was in the garden. It bleeded a lot!”

“Did you get it cleaned and stitched up?” Eskel asks, gently cupping Julian’s foot in his other hand, “It looks like a tidy scar.”

“Yeah, and I only cried for three songs!”

“You’re very brave,” Eskel says seriously and Julian beams at him.

He then rolls his trouser up above his knee to show off the pink scar there, “This is from when I fell off my horse. My father said it will be a reminder that I should be better.”

Both men blink and glance at each other before Eskel nods slowly, “I think… I think it’s a reminder of an adventure.”

Julian looks up at him with wide eyes, “An  _ adventure?” _

“Mhm. You rode your horse like a knight into battle, and were knocked from your steed by an evil…”

“Dragon!”

“By an evil dragon,” Eskel smiles, for once not minding the way his scars twist with his grin, “And, by the gods will, you only sustained the smallest of injuries before slaying the fearsome beast.”

Julian is giving Eskel his unfettered attention, blue eyes round as he listens, “Like a witcher?”

“Better than a witcher.”

“ _ Wow.” _

“Julian, Eskel is going to be joining me for dinner,” Ashwood says as he gracefully settles down in the chair opposite the witcher again, “Would you like to stay as well?”

Julian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, looking down at his hands and rubbing his forefinger against his thumb on his free hand as he thinks. Eskel’s hand is still holding Julian’s other one, the boy looking loathe to let it go. “Okay, it’s probably okay. I just can’t stay after dark, or else my father will be upset.”

“Then I guess it’s good the soup will be ready long before dark,” Ashwood claps his hands together and leans back in his chair, picking up his mug of tea once more, “Now, Eskel, you were regaling me with the story of how you slew this terrible beast; do you mind starting over so that Julian can enjoy the tale as well?”

Eskel takes a breath and lets it out with a chuckle, adjusting Julian on his knee and nodding, “Alright. I get your letter just after I’d finished a battle with a werewolf…”

* * *

The boy shows up again, even after Eskel has gone and a witcher is no longer needed. Thankfully, the bell above the door jingles this time and Ashwood is able to turn fast enough to catch the blur of brunette hair as Julian runs across the store to the counter. 

“You’re back! Don’t tell me there’s another cockatrice, is there?” Ashwood asks with a smile, taking a break from his work to lean on the top of the counter. Julian has grabbed the edge, standing on tiptoes to look up at him.

“Nope! I came to say hello!”

“Well, hello there, little Julian,” Ashwood gives him a lazy salute and Julian giggles, “Now what do you want, you mongrel?”

Julian blinks with a blank expression, “What’s that mean?”

“Means you’re like a wild dog,” Ashwood reaches out and ruffles the loose hair and thin braids that thread through Julian’s long hair, “I give you food once and you keep coming back.”

“You didn’t give me any food!”

“It’s a metaphor, boy.”

Julian puffs out his cheeks, squinting his eyes and pinching his lips, “What’s a metaphor?”

“When you’re talking about something else with the words you say.”

“That doesn’t make sense! Why wouldn’t you just say what you mean?”

“Who knows?” Ashwood shrugs with a smile, “It’s just what people do.”

Julian hums softly in thought before changing the subject, “I came, too, because you’re nice and my governess takes naps in the afternoon. But don’t tell my father, he’ll get cross with her and sack her.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a governess who can play with you all day?”

“Lady Kalen doesn’t play with me even when she’s awake,” he sticks his small tongue out distastefully, “She just has me do maths and tu- tur- torturing.”

“Tutoring?”

“Yeah that! It’s  _ boring,” _ Julian lets go of the counter to stagger in a circle dramatically, “It’s far more cool here, Master Ashwood.”

Ashwood smiles in amusement, “You can just call me Ashwood, it’s okay.”

“But you’re older than me! I’m s’posed to show respect to my elders.”

“I’m gonna choose not to take offense to that,” Ashwood sniffs, turning his nose up but cracking one eye open to watch as Julian covers his mouth to stifle the snort that nearly erupted from him.

“But you are, Ashwood! You told me yourself that you’re almost a  _ hundred.” _

The sorcerer scoffs, walking around the counter to sit on the ground and be closer to Julian’s height, “I’m hardly one  _ hundred, _ I said I was eighty-three.”

“Which you said is  _ nearly  _ one hundred!” Julian argues, kneeling down between Ashwood’s stretched out legs and resting his small hands on his own thin thighs. The black fabric of his trousers is dirty and torn, and Ashwood can see small scrapes through the tears.

“Did you fall down on your way here?” He asks with concern, eyes flickering up to Julian’s blue ones. Julian looks away guiltily and slides his hands down to cover his knees.

“Maybe… Please don’t tell my father I tore my trousers again,” Julian pouts at Ashwood and he sighs with a small smile.

“Come closer, I’ll heal your cuts right up, child.”

Julian shuffles closer and Ashwood lifts him with ease, his small body no heavier than fifty-- maybe sixty-- pounds. He sets Julian in his lap, untucking the trousers from the tops of black boots and rucking them up to above his knees, revealing the still slowly oozing abrasions. Julian glances up over his shoulder at Ashwood with curiosity in his wide eyes.

“Are you gonna do magic on me?” Julian asks in a hushed voice and Ashwood nods, hovering his hand over one angry knee.

“Just a little bit. I’ll make these go away and we can mend your trousers before you go home tonight, ay?”

Julian looks back at Ashwood’s hand and then jerks, giggling almost hysterically, “It feels weird!”

“Good weird or bad weird?”

“I don’t know!”

Ashwood laughs and Julian leans back against the sorcerer’s chest, wrapping his small hand around Ashwood’s bicep. The boy gasps in shock and awe as the skin of his knees knit back together, the blood vanishing and all that’s left behind is a faint pinkness of the skin. “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you, I went to school for four years to learn to be good at healing people,” Ashwood preens under the innocent praise.

“You’re really, really good at it, Ashwood,” Julian scrambles around to straddle Ashwood’s hips, placing his little hands on the mage’s cheeks, “You’re super pretty, too. That witcher--Eskel-- he wouldn’t stop looking at you.”

Ashwood’s cheeks heat up and he has to stop himself from looking away in embarrassment, “He and I are good friends, we’ve known each other a long time.”

“Are you good friends like how mother is with our cook? Janie says that she and my mother are good friends. And they play together  _ all _ the time in mother’s bedroom.”

Ashwood blinks and then prays to the gods that he isn’t finding out about infidelity within the noble family of Lettenhove. “Does she now?”

“Yeah, and they’re  _ super _ noisy about it. I asked, once, if I could play with them because it sounded like they were having fun but,” Julian pouts then, looking down in disappointment as he wraps his arms around Ashwood’s neck, easily hugging him and resting his head on Ashwood’s shoulder, “but they said it’s a game only for adults.”

Gods help him.

“Well, if you like and there’s time, we can play a game before you go home. But we need to mend your trousers first, Julian. So shuck them and sit down on the stool, I’ll get you a blanket so you don’t catch cold in just your smalls.”

Julian nods and shifts off of Ashwood’s lap so that he can pull his boots off while the mage retrieves a warm blanket from the back room. When he returns, Julian is sitting on the stool, right where Ashwood told him to be, with his pants thrown on the counter and his boots haphazardly on the floor. Julian is playing with something shiny and Ashwood cocks his head curiously as he approaches and wraps the blanket around the boy’s small body.

“What’s that you’ve got there?”

Julian looks up and opens his hands, revealing a brilliantly iridescent beetle, “I found it in the grass. It’s dead though.”

Ashwood picks up the trousers and grabs a needle and black thread from beneath the counter, “It’s very beautiful. What colors do you see on it?”

“Well, when you turn it this way,” Julian demonstrates and Ashwood glances over as he pulls a second stool to the counter with his foot, “It’s green and blue! But when you turn it  _ that _ way, it’s brown and red. I like the green and blue colors better, it looks like the sea.”

Ashwood threads the needle and turns the trousers inside out, starting to mend the holes, “Do you go to the sea often?”

“Sometimes,” Julian nods, “Father says we can’t go too frequently, though. There’s  _ pirates  _ and they could steal us for a handsome.”

“Ransom.”

“Yeah, that. He says that since we’re no-- nobil-- nobility, we’re important people.”

“Is that so?”

Julian nods and carefully turns the beetle over to look at its belly, “Yup. I don’t feel like an important person though, and I don’t want to be one.”

“What do you want to be?”

“A bard!” Julian shouts, suddenly loud and Ashwood pokes himself with the needle and grimaces. Julian hunches his shoulders in, so quickly flipping his mood to small and cowed that Ashwood’s discomfort is forgotten. “Sorry, Ashwood.”

“It’s okay,” he says, trying to fight the frown that wants to surface. He speaks gently as he returns to sewing, “Why do you want to be a bard?”

“I wanna travel the Continent! Sing songs for people to laugh and sing with and play my lute for everyone to hear! I’m gonna be the most famous bard that  _ ever _ lived.” Julian puffs his chest up, more confident again that he isn’t being punished for shouting.

“The most famous one ever, huh? That’s a noble pursuit, mongrel.”

“Why do you keep calling me that!”

“Because I think mutts are cute, like you,” Ashwood smiles and Julian sticks his tongue out.

“I’m not  _ cute, _ I’m manly,” he grumps, pushing his bottom lip out in an impressive pout.

Ashwood nods, “Of course. Well mongrels can be manly, too. And if you decide that you’d prefer to be cute then that’s okay, too.”

Julian peers up at him curiously for a few moments before turning his attention back to his beetle, carefully lifting the elytron to peer at the wings underneath. The rest of the time spent patching up the trousers is spent in silence, even as Ashwood sees Julian start to speak multiple times and then stop himself. The mage doesn’t draw attention to it, though, and turns the trousers right-side-out with a snap of his wrists, the fabric cracking in the air as they straighten out.

“All done, kiddo,” he hands the pants to Julian and the boy climbs down from the stool to pull them on over his stockings and smallclothes, pulling his boots back on as well.

“I don’t know how to tie laces yet, Ashwood. Can you help me?” He wiggles one booted foot in indication of his untied laces. Ashwood nods and kneels down on one knee walking Julian through the process of tying boot laces and then having the boy repeat it back to him.

“Want to try the other one? You’re old enough that you should be tying your own laces, Jules.”

“I dunno, I guess I can,” Julian bites his lip as he sits down again, slowly speaking the steps Ashwood showed him, “Pull them tight… cross the laces. One goes… around?” Julian glances up for reassurance that he’s correct and Ashwood gives him an encouraging nod. “One goes around… then make a bunny ear… wrap the other lace around and… pull it… through--” Julian’s fingers fumble with the lace and he pulls too hard, knotting them accidentally.

“Ugh!” He throws the laces down and crosses his arms, face turning red with frustration, “It’s too hard! I can’t do it!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Ashwood is quick to untangle the knot and do the laces himself, tying them in a bow, “It’s no problem, yeah? Look, all better. We’ll try again next time, okay?”

Julian sniffles and looks up at Ashwood with teary eyes, “I can come back again?”

“Yes, of course,” he ruffles Julian’s hair again, “Now, it’s a bit late for the game I told you about, but we can learn that next time, too, alright?”

“Okay!” Julian jumps to his feet and rushes forward, wrapping Ashwood in a tight hug, “I’ll see you tomorrow!” The bell over the door is jingling before Ashwood realizes what just happened.

“Wait, tomorrow?”

* * *

The bell over the door gives a strangled clank, the hammer stuck in the dome again, and Ashwood doesn’t bother looking up. It’s about the time that Julian came over, like he does most afternoons, and always with his mouth running faster than his mind, and sometimes feet, can keep up. 

Today there’s silence though, which is concerning to him. No one ever enters his shop at this time of day  _ other _ than Julian. So for the boy to be silent means something is wrong. Ashwood puts down the craft he was working on, he’s learning how to knit from Eskel, and leans forward to look over the edge of the counter.

Julian stands there, dripping wet and sniffling. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy, his face splotchy and pale. It isn’t raining outside, and Ashwood can see signs of a scuffle in the small tears in Julian’s clothing and scrapes on his hands and cheeks. The real kicker is the way some of Julian’s braids have been frayed, beads torn from the plaits and just the rachis left behind of stripped feathers.

“Julian, what happened?” Ashwood asks in alarm, setting down the needles and hurrying around the counter to lift Julian up onto it, already summoning a blanket from the back room as he starts to strip Julian of the wet clothing.

Julian sniffs, tears overflowing his eyes, “I-I was coming to visit you and-and some of the older boys started calling you names. So I t-told them to st-stop and they started h-hitting me!” He lets his head fall back and a broken sob to spill from his lips. He isn’t doing much to help Ashwood peel off the wet fabric, but the mage doesn’t say a word about it, just getting it off as quickly as possible. 

“How’d you get all wet?” He asks softly, “Unless the rain cloud over your head opened up in a downpour, hm?”

“They-they throwed me into a horse trough,” Julian sobs, “S-said I was an a-a-ass!”

Ashwood feels fury burn through his veins at the indignity Julian was shown. How dare someone hurt this sweet little boy? He’s been nothing but sunshine and dandelions since entering Ashwood’s life. It isn’t until Julian whispers about Ashwood hurting him that he realizes he’s rubbing the boy down with the blanket a bit aggressively.

“I’m sorry, Julian,” he sighs, wrapping the blanket around the boy securely, “I didn’t mean to, I just… it wasn’t right. What those boys did to you. And I’m a little upset about it.”

“It’s okay, it was an accident,” Julian says softly, hiccuping from his tears, “C-can I have a hug?”

“Of course. Absolutely,” Ashwood pulls Julian into his arms, lifting him off of the counter to hold the bundle of child closer to him. Julian sobs onto Ashwood’s shoulder, tears soaking the fabric of his tunic, but Ashwood just murmurs assurances and praise as he rocks the boy gently. He flicks his fingers so the wet clothes will hang themselves up in front of the burning hearth and then returns his attention Julian.

He’s finally starting to calm down, breaths hot and ragged in his small chest, and Ashwood rubs Julian’s back firmly to help his lungs clear of the aftereffects of tears. “Do you want me to heal your cuts and bruises, Julian?” Ashwood asks quietly. They learned that Julian doesn’t love the feeling of healing magic, the weird becoming a bad weird over time, and he’ll usually opt to just heal on his own.

Julian nods and sniffles, keeping his face tucked into Ashwood’s neck. “Do you have to put me down?” He whispers. 

The mage shakes his head, “Not at all. I can heal you like this since they’re not really bad injuries.” Julian sighs in relief and relaxes fully into Ashwood’s hold, his breaths shaky as the sorcerer starts to heal the boy, pushing the gentle waves of chaos into the torn skin, stopping the flow of blood and knitting the flesh back together until Julian is whole again. 

Ashwood opens his mouth to speak when he turns his head and sees Julian’s relaxed face, breathing having evened out and deepened as he fell asleep. The exhaustion of his altercation winning out in the warm embrace of someone he trusts. Ashwood smiles softly and sits down again at the counter, carefully arranging Julian on his lap, and picking up his knitting again with the child cradled to his chest.

* * *

“Ashwood, have you ever gone on a picnic before?”

Ashwood looks up from the half-completed game of chess, that Julian is somehow winning at, to see an intense expression of seriousness on the boy’s face. “I have. Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to go for a picnic with you.”

Ashwood hums, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” They celebrated Julian’s ninth birthday a month or so ago by visiting the markets in town; an odd request of the boy but Ashwood indulged him with a smile. They had  Pączki and listened to the bard at the town center, dancing with other children around the well, and Ashwood had even taken Julian along with him to the farm at the edge of town where a horse breeder had a foal due. Julian had pulled a face at the birth of the fillie, but hadn’t looked away, his endless curiosity keeping him in place. 

It wasn’t until after the day had ended that Ashwood learned Julian is expressly forbidden from going past Ashwood’s shop by his father.

“ _ Please, _ Ashwood?” Julian sticks his lower lip out in a pout, widening his baby blues in the way he knows Ashwood is remiss to turn down, “I’ve never even gone on one before. Little Eye told me about them at the banquet we had to go to.”

“What was the banquet for again?” Ashwood tries to distract the child by moving a pawn forward and changing the subject, resolutely keeping his eyes away from Julian’s pouting face.

He sighs noisily, propping his chin on his hand, “Little Eye’s sister’s birthday. I don’t even  _ like  _ Priscilla but Janie does so I had to go, too.”

“How is your sister by the way? Still recovering well from her pox?”

“She’s fine, I guess,” he grumbles, pout gone as his mood plummets, “She has a friend who likes me and it’s  _ gross.” _

“Oh?”

“Yeah! Karolin keeps trying to kiss me on the cheek or says I should court her. It’s disgusting,” Julian pulls a face and sticks out his tongue, “I hate girls, I wish they’d all just leave me alone.”

Ashwood chuckles and opens his mouth to speak, looking up again. Just as he does, out of his peripheral, he sees Julian swipe one of his pawns and place his own black pawn there. “Hey! I saw that, you little cheater!”

“It’s not cheating if I win,” Julian says smugly, “Checkmate.”

“Wha-” The mage lets out a noise of indignant rage, “Oh you sneak. You sneaky sneaky sneaker! You cheated! How long have you been cheating?”

Julian bursts into peals of laughter, rocking back and forth on the stool as he digs in his pockets and pulls out all of Ashwood’s missing players. He drops the wooden chess pieces on the counter and Ashwood scoffs, “So  _ that’s _ where they kept going! I thought you were just inordinately good at chess!”

Julian’s bubbling laughter redoubles and he falls off the stool, landing on the floor with a dull  _ whump! _ Ashwood and Julian blink at each other for a moment before matching grins split their faces and their mirth fills the shop with a bright warmth and a giddy happiness.

* * *

Sometimes, when Julian comes over, he has injuries he won’t explain. Lashes across his knuckles, bruises on his cheeks; once there were welts across his lips and mouth that had dribbled blood each time the boy opened his mouth. Ashwood always heals what he can see, but he suspects Julian hides many more wounds from him out of a sense of… something. He’s not sure  _ what _ though.

It breaks his heart every time he sees Julian and the boy holds himself stiffly, his back ramrod straight. Or when he sits gingerly on the stool, a small wince flitting across his face. Or even the time he refused to sit at all, standing and sniffling but remaining stubbornly close-lipped about what was causing the tears in his eyes. It all comes to a head when Julian comes to his shop on one of the last clear days of autumn.

The bell jingles over the door and uneven footsteps cross the floor. Ashwood is in the back room, but emerges with a frown that turns to horror at the sight of the child in front of him. 

Julian’s lip is split, and there’s a horrendous gash along his hairline that drips blood down his temple and cheek, mingling with the tears dripping from his chin. He’s holding his arm awkwardly to his chest and favoring his right leg to his left, kanting to the side as he sways gently. His head is hung and his hair is roughly shorn off, beautiful locks and plaits chopped unevenly and making his hair stick out in a twisted halo around his head.

“Julian, what happened?” Ashwood gasps, dropping the vials of stock on the counter and rushing over. Julian flinches and stumbles back a step. The mage freezes, hands outstretched and fingers twitching as chaos leaps to them, ready to heal.

“Don’t call me that,” Julian rasps, voice rough with pain and tears, “Please, don’t call me that.”

“Okay, what would you prefer I call you instead?” Ashwood gentles his voice and lightly places a hand on the boy’s back. The child sways into the touch, collapsing against Ashwood’s stomach and dissolving into sobs. “Ju-- little mongrel?”

He shakes his head, tears soaking Ashwood’s tunic, “I d-don’t want to go ho-home, Ashwood. Pl-please don’t ma-make me!”

“What happened? Can you tell me?”

The boy takes gulping, hiccuping gasps of air between the ragged sobs that rip free of his thin chest. Ashwood blinks back the heat that rises to his own eyes, tenderly lifting the child up into his arms and carrying him upstairs to Ashwood’s living quarters. He tries to set the boy down onto the bed but small hands cling to his shirt, uninjured leg wrapping around Ashwood’s waist.

“I need to heal you, mongrel.”

He shakes his head, the scent of iron strong in the air, “D-don’t wanna. Not y-yet.”

The mage swallows thickly but nods, sitting down on the bed with the boy in his arms, rocking him gently as he quietly starts to hum under his breath. Ashwood’s not sure how much time passes before the child calms down, tears reducing to soft hiccups and sniffles, tight grip loosening. He smooths a hand over the boy’s short hair and down his back, both providing comfort and feeling for injuries unseen. 

“I don’t want to be Julian anymore,” the boy whispers into Ashwood’s shoulder, “I  _ hate _ being Julian.”

“Okay,” Ashwood murmurs soothingly, “We can find a new name for you, how does that sound?”

“I don’t know how to do that,” the child says miserably, pulling back to look the mage in the eyes. The blood from the gash is smeared across pale and freckled skin, the bruise dark and swelling the boy’s eye shut. Ashwood carefully shifts them so that the boy is sitting on the bed while he retrieves medical supplies, figuring now is not the time for magic when the child barely tolerates the feeling to begin with.

“Well,” Ashwood starts slowly, working through his thoughts as he searches his cupboards for his med kit, “You can either just choose a name, some people do that and will choose something similar to their old name, or you can think of something meaningful to you and choose a name based on that. For starters.”

The boy is quiet as he thinks and Ashwood finds his supplies, getting a bowl of warm water and some bandages and salve before kneeling down and gently taking a damp cloth and dabbing at the drying blood that cracks atop the boy’s skin. He works in silence, cleaning the cuts and applying salves, only speaking to ask the child to move for him.

“Are there any more injuries I can’t see?” Ashwood asks softly once he’s bandaged everything. The boy shakes his head but holds his arm out.

“My arm hurts really bad.”

Ashwood takes it gently, rolling up the boy’s sleeve and pressing gently with his fingertips along his forearm to find the source of the injury, “Have you thought about a new name yet?”

The child sniffles and takes a deep breath, coughing as he lets it out again, “Father hates flowers. I want to be named after a flower.”

“Okay,” Ashwood nods, “What kind of flower?”

“A weed.”

“Can I ask why? I’m just curious.”

“Because we never plant weeds, but they grow up anyway. They’re sturdy and strong and can keep growing anywhere they want to.” The boy’s voice is wobbling but strong, “And I think they’re pretty.”

“Hmm, that’s a good reason,” Ashwood smiles gently, “What are your favorite weeds?”

“I like... “ he trails off as he thinks for a moment, wiping his eyes with his uninjured fist, “I like dandelions. And buttercups. I like daisies too.”

“Yellow flowers, huh?”

“Yellow’s a pretty color.”

“I don’t disagree,” Ashwood finds a lump of bruising on the boy’s arm and applies a salve to it, “Do you want one of those names to be yours?”

He shakes his head, “It’s too obvious if I choose one of those.”

“Well, there’s Elder. Dandelion is  _ mniszek lekarski _ , buttercup is  _ jaskier _ , and daisy is  _ stokrotka _ .”

“The first one is too long,” the boy shakes his head, “And stok-stokrotka is too hard to say.”

“What about jaskier, then? It means buttercup.”

The boy sucks his split bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on it gently as he casts his eyes upwards in thought. Finally, after a long silence, he nods.

“I like that one,” Jaskier says softly and Ashwood smiles, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s forehead.

“Good. Now, Jaskier, let’s get that haircut cleaned up.”

* * *

Jaskier is supposed to be working on his maths work, the worksheets laid out in front of him and his textbook open on the counter as he rolls a quill between his fingers, watching the feather roll. Ashwood has given up on trying to get him to focus in favor of his own work. There’s only so much the mage can do when Julian is in a funk. 

The boy runs his fingers through his short hair, finally grown to a decent length after Ashwood had to shear it all off so it would grow evenly once more. He wonders if Jaskier will ever grow it to the length Keracki culture totes so dutifully, despite his father telling him he’s not a true Pankratz. The argument in question was more of an attack than anything else, from what the mage has been able to glean from Jaskier. 

He refuses to say much, but Ashwood has needled out that the boy refused to wear his hair in the traditional Pankratz style of woven crowns, citing not liking his father. His father had then thrown a bottle at Jaskier and beat the boy into submission to be able to roughly chop off Jaskier’s locks with the broken glass. It’s enough to boil Ashwood’s blood, and were he a more violent man he’d surely get his revenge. That being said, Ashwood may or may not be waiting for the right time to slip this information to Eskel’s brother; who  _ is _ a more violent and vengeful man.

The tip of the quill taps on the countertop a few times, scratches for a moment on one of the papers, and then is set down as Jaskier caps the inkpot he was using and sighs heavily. Silence reigns for several more minutes before he speaks up in a small voice.

“Ashwood?”

“Yeah, kid?” Ashwood calls over his shoulder, focused on the potion he’s creating for Mister Handel, the balding baker who wants some hair growth once more. It’s imperative that he gets these measurements right, or else he could end up giving Mister Handel boils instead of hair. He adds exactly two ounces of dandelion fluff, watching the potion sizzle and turn a pleasant green color. There’s no reply from Jaskier and Ashwood pauses to glance over his shoulder.

Jaskier is sitting at the counter, swinging his legs and resting his chin on his folded arms. He’s chewing on his lip, rubbing the forefinger and thumb of his dominant hand together nervously as he watches Ashwood work.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier nods and swallows. He doesn’t look any less frightened.

The sorcerer hums and tries to finish the potion quickly, adding an ounce of powdered hirikka claw and the feather of a cockatrice. Once it’s simmering and able to be left alone for a while, he crosses to the counter and leans his elbows on it, lowering his head to be level with Jaskier’s. 

“You look more scared than a nekker facing down a witcher,” Ashwood teases and the boy’s cheeks flush.

“No I don’t,” He mutters and buries his face in his arms. Ashwood rubs a hand over Jaskier’s back and gives it a few solid pats.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I have to force a truth serum down your gullet?”

Jaskier looks up in alarm, “No! No, I’ll tell you just… just not yet, okay? I need to think first!”

“Okay!” Ashwood raises his hands placatingly, “Okay, I’ll be patient. Just let me know when you want to talk, alright?”

Jaskier nods, keeping his head buried. His ears are pink and Ashwood smoothes his hand over Jaskier’s hair gently. As he returns to work, he hears Jaskier shifting around on the stool, his nervousness manifesting in uncontrollable fidgeting. Finally, he speaks up again.

“Ashwood?” His voice is almost a whisper.

“Yes, Jaskier?”

There’s a pause and Ashwood walks back over, pulling a stool over to sit across from the boy and take his hand, “Hey, you can tell me anything, okay?”

Jaskier looks down at their hands and nods, squeezing Ashwood’s lightly and keeping his head ducked as he whispers, “Can I call you my father?”

Ashwood freezes, unsure if he heard correctly, “I beg your pardon?”

“I…” Jaskier swallows hard, his voice choked and his grip tightening, “You know how my father… I’d rather…” He takes a shaking breath, tears filling his words, “I’d prefer to call you my father.”

His head feels full of static, his heart both soaring and sinking in turn. He’s elated, ecstatic that Jaskier thinks of him in such a way. Sure, the boy has spent almost every afternoon with him for the past three years. Ashwood’s fed him dinner more often than not, and offers him advice and guidance. He helps Jaskier with his tutoring, listens as the boy practices his lute. Hell, he’s lent an ear to his hardships more times than Ashwood can remember. 

He thinks about how much he loves Jaskier.

“Okay.”

Jaskier looks up, tears in his blue eyes and on his cheeks. He sniffs and wipes his nose on his sleeve, no regard for the lace on his cuff. “R-really? Are you sure?”

Ashwood smiles and stands up, walking around to wrap his arms around Jaskier, “I’m sure. But maybe we drop the ‘father’ title. I’m not too fond of it.” Jaskier’s face starts to fall, the way it does when he thinks he’s done something wrong, so Ashwood is quick to reassure him, “Not because I don’t want to be your parental figure, Jaskier, please understand. I just don’t think of myself as able to fit the word ‘father’. Why don’t you call me… Amma, instead?”

“Amma?”

“Mhm, rolls right off the tongue,” He winks at the boy and Jaskier brightens, burying his face in Ashwood’s chest.

“Okay,” he says softly, voice muffled by the fabric of Ashwood’s shirt, “thank you… Amma.”

“You’re welcome, Jaskier,” Ashwood replies, just as quietly. As though, if either of them made too much sound, the moment would be a lie.

* * *

There’s a knock at his door.

This is unusual, as the door is unlocked and business hours are upon him. It’s too early to be Jaskier just yet, though, so Ashwood wipes his hands off on a spare cloth and crosses the room to open the door. 

“Ashwood’s Apothecary, how can I…” his voice trails off at the sight of Lord Pankratz upon his ferocious black steed. The mare is a menacing sight to behold, and had Ashwood not regularly cared for her during his time in Lettenhove, he’d surely be intimidated. However, he can’t say he isn’t mildly concerned by the small platoon of guards that flank Lord Pankratz, some of whom are carrying dimeritium weaponry.

Ashwood clears his throat, “Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

A page steps forward out of the equine crowd, unrolling a scroll to speak in as official a tone as his young voice can manage, “‘To the sorcerer Ashwood of Daevon: by order of the Lord Viscount Jorgen Alfred Pankratz, you must cease operation of your apothecary and vacate the premises. You must also leave Lettenhove to never return. This punishment is on behalf of the fraternization you have partaken in with the Lord Viscount’s son, Julian Alfred Pankratz, in a manner that can be construed as immoral, unethical, and cruel. If you are not absent from Lettenhove by dawn o’er morrow, then the Lord Viscount will be forced to imprison you for treason.’”

There’s silence; enough to hear the swishing of horse hair and bubbling of his own potions behind him. Ashwood blinks, mulling over the decree, and then frowns.

“I beg your pardon?” He looks to the lord and tilts his head, “You’re  _ banishing _ me from Lettenhove because I cared for your son for the better part of three years?”

“You’ve done nothing but twist his mind!” Lord Pankratz rages, his cheeks ruddy with anger, “He’s dancing around! Calling himself a  _ bard, _ and insisting the servants call him  _ Jaskier! _ I haven’t the faintest what that means but as close allies of Cintra and Queen Calanthe, I cannot abide by my son having a nickname in the tongue of those inhuman bastards.”

There’s another long pause as Ashwood feels a flight of fear ripple through him. He clearly displays elven heritage in his slightly pointed ears and too bright eyes, and to have vitriol for the evellian race spewed so blatantly in front of him,  _ to  _ him, is something that has him worried. He swallows thickly as he gathers his courage, grip on the doorframe tightening.

“You’re banishing me because I gave him a home?” Ashwood asks quietly, “I gave him someone he could turn to in his hours of need? I gave him companionship? Love?”

“You turned my son against me! He was a perfectly obedient little boy and now he refuses to even call me his father. He’s ten-years-old for the gods’ sake! He should be training with the soldiers, learning politics with his tutors; but, instead he’s running here every afternoon to spend his time with-with-- well, with an  _ elf!” _

Ashwood draws up his shoulders, lifting himself to his full, impressive height. He’s quite a bit taller than most people, and not a waif by any means. He’s slender, sure, but powerful, and his eyes snap with fury as chaos surges through him and crackles in the air. It dances along skin, lifting hairs and raising goose flesh on exposed arms, and the scent of ozone and lightning condenses around them.

“I think you’ll find it difficult to make me abandon that child,” Ashwood says in a low voice.

Lord Pankratz looks uneasy, just for a moment, before his expression hardens into a nasty sneer, “You will leave, or I shall summon the witch hunters. They collect bounties on mages like you as a  _ pastime. _ They caught the great Yennefer of Vengerberg, didn’t you hear?”

“Sir,” one of the soldiers murmurs, leaning closer, “Yennefer of Vengerberg escaped though.”

“Inconsequential. This middling sorcerer is nothing compared to the might of the witch hunters.”

Ashwood’s cold fury is steadily morphing into a hot rage, his cheeks blazing and his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He’s caught, though, if he continues to refuse then the witch hunters will come and he’ll be sent running once again. If he concedes, he’ll be abandoning Jaskier. He needs to play his cards carefully, and keep his hand close to his chest lest the ruse brewing between his ears be uncovered.

Ashwood takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and letting it out slowly to calm his racing heart and thundering veins, “Alright.”

Lord Pankratz’s eyes snap back to him, “Alright?”

“Yes. I will leave. I demand an audience with my--  _ your _ son, though.”

“That will not be possible, I’m afraid.”

“Then I will curse this town to oblivion, Jorgen Pankratz,” Ashwood snarls, “Mark my words, if I am not given the chance to give that boy closure and explain my absence, I will damn you all the very depths of the hell of my mind’s wildest imaginations. Everyone except for the children will suffer, and you will be forced to wail for my help, as no one but me will be able to undo any malevolence I bestow upon this land.”

“Sir!”

“Fine! Fine,” Lord Pankratz looks a bit pale from the mage’s threats, “You may have an audience with my son. Mount your horse and we will bring you to the manor.”

“I have no need for a horse,” Ashwood sneers and conjures a portal directly into the gardens of Lettenhove Manor, “And I shall see myself out when I am finished as well.”

The portal snaps shut behind him as he steps through and stomps around the flowerbeds for a few moments as he gets his wildly raging emotions back under his control. How dare he. How  _ dare _ he! How could the Lord Pankratz send him away, all for giving Jaskier the love and devotion the boy deserves? 

It’s good they believed his bluff about cursing the town, they don’t deserve his ire. Or, at least, he  _ thinks _ he was bluffing. He’s honestly not sure, he’s never been this angry before in his  _ life. _ Not even when he was told he couldn’t use the ascension to change his body to his preferred appearance or when he was barred from Ban Ard, all because he was born with a cunt.

He takes another deep breath, slowly flexing his hands and exhaling. He needs to be perfectly calm to speak with Jaskier, for the boy’s emotions are more flighty than even his own. Ashwood runs his hands through his hair, quickly typing the tight curls back into a ponytail, and then heads into the manor through a servant’s entrance that he knows remains unlocked. 

His footsteps echo through the large halls as he heads for the grand staircase, most servants down below and the family most likely absent for the most part. Jaskier is probably being watched by his governess or one of his tutors while his older sister Jane is out with his mother. Ashwood takes the steps two at a time, his long legs making the climb with ease, and he heads towards the family wing.

He finds Jaskier in his bedroom, a place Ashwood has only visited once before when Jaskier was ill, along with his political tutor. Their heads are bowed over Jaskier’s desk, but the boy has a hand under his chin and his fingers tapping on his cheek in a rhythmic pattern of boredom. The mage takes a loud step into the room and both Jaskier and the tutor jump in surprise.

“Master Ashwood!” The tutor exclaims, getting to his feet, “What a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence today?”

“I need to speak to Jaskier, it is an urgent and private matter.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen in curiosity as his head tilts. The tutor glances at the boy but nods, giving a brief bow, “Of course. Master Julian, I will return shortly.”

Ashwood waits until the tutor has gone to close the door, keeping his back to Jaskier for just a moment longer. The room is quiet for a few pregnant seconds.

“What’s wrong, Amma?”

_Oh_ , and if that isn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back. Ashwood’s heart shatters and his stomach plummets, bile rising in his throat and tears stinging his eyes at what he’s about to do to this sweet, little boy.

“Jaskier, I…” Ashwood turns, taking a deep and shuddering breath and letting it out in a fast rush through his nose. Jaskier has such an innocence in his curiosity, blue eyes wide and soft as he looks up at the mage. “I have to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Away. For a long time.”

Jaskier frowns, lips tugging down and brow furrowing, “Why?”

“I… your father doesn’t like that we spend time together,” Ashwood walks closer, kneeling down on the floor in front of the boy, “And he says I need to go away now, forever.”

“But… but why?”

“He thinks I’m making you not like him,” Ashwood tries to keep his voice even, his face clear and open for the child to read as best he can, but still Jaskier’s frown deepens.

“But I don’t like him,” he says earnestly, “And you have magic. Can’t you just make him leave you alone?”

“It would take a lot of energy to maintain a spell like that,” Ashwood says gently, “I wouldn’t be able to hold it and do the work I use my magic for.”

“So you’re leaving.”

The mage nods solemnly, “Yes.”

“Well, then I can come with you!”

Ashwood bites his tongue, fighting the burn in his eyes at the suggestion. “That’s not possible, little mongrel.”

Jaskier is starting to become agitated, his cheeks reddening and his eyes beginning to water, “But  _ why not?” _

“You need to stay here, with your family where it's safe. I have nowhere to go, nowhere I can take you.”

“We can go to the magic school!”

“ _ No.” _ Ashwood says sharply and Jaskier’s mouth, ready to continue arguing, closes with an audible click.

“I don’t understand, Amma,” Jaskier whispers, tears spilling over blue eyes and down round cheeks, “Why can’t I come with you? Why can’t we run away together?”

“Oh, Jaskier,” Ashwood’s heart, already shattered into little pieces, turns to dust; ground beneath the heel of Jaskier’s little boot, “I love you. But it’s just not something feasible.”

Jaskier is starting to cry in earnest now, nose running and fists coming up to rub at his face. Ashwood feels useless, nothing more than an ant on a skelligan warship adrift at sea after being under siege by pirates. Anger at this injustice sparks in Jaskier and the boy scowls through his tears, “You mustn’t love me very much then. You’re just like Jorgen!”

“Jaskier, don’t say that--”

“You  _ are! _ You think you know  _ everything! _ Well, you don’t! You’re abandoning me!” Jaskier sobs and when Ashwood tries to lean forward to embrace him, Jaskier violently shoves him away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Jaskier…”

“I hate you! I hate you just as much as I hate Jorgen!”

Ashwood’s vision swims and his voice is thick, choked around the heavy lump in his throat, “Jaskier,  _ please. _ You have to understand.”

“I  _ don’t _ understand! I don’t! I don’t!”

“I--”

Jaskier stumbles off of his chair, aggressively shoving it into place at the desk and standing over Ashwood’s kneeling form. When did he get so tall? “If you want to leave me so badly, then  _ leave!” _

Ashwood watches him loudly sob through grit teeth, small hands balled at his sides as anguish and rage color his face. The mage opens his mouth to try to speak one last time but Jaskier cuts him off:

“Just  _ fuck off!” _

His shoulders hunch inwards a bit as he gets to his feet, tears touching his own cheeks as he gasps out a strangled whisper, “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

“ _ Leave!” _ Jaskier screams and grabs the inkpot from his desk, hurling it with startling accuracy. It strikes Ashwood in the chest, shattering and splattering his tunic with pitch black ink that blossoms over his heart and bleeds with the pain that thrums through the mage’s veins.

He staggers back and swallows thickly. He makes his way to the door, pausing only briefly to look back at the child. Jaskier has sat down on the floor with his back to the wall, legs pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around them as he wails his misery into his knees. Without another word, Ashwood leaves, the aftershocks of Jaskier’s unfettered sobs echoing in his ears.

* * *

The sky is empty and bereft of even a cloud to pass him by as his boots crunch over the fallen snow of early winter. The sun is hung low on the horizon, a medallion that dangles from the lunar fingers of the moon opposite, stars appearing as the night pokes needles into the atmosphere. The wind blows sharp and crisp, still carrying the heady scent of autumn with it as the last of the leaves rattle from the crooked trees.

Ashwood’s hands are buried deep in the pockets of his cloak, fur lined gloves encasing them but still the cold air bites at his fingertips just as it nips at his nose and scratches against his cheeks. He follows his own footsteps, prints left in the snow from his departure that same day. Tens, dozens,  _ hundreds _ of his tracks line these woods, the treeline just ahead of him and just past that…

The walls of the Lettenhove Keep stand tall and vigilant against intruders. Towering up over the empty land around it, the seagrasses that waved in the summer now blanketed in a thick layer of freeze. The snows came early this year, and Ashwood can’t decide if this is beneficial to him, or a hindrance in what he plans to do. He pauses, just inside the forest, before turning and walking deeper into the trees once more, following the path he forged weeks ago, trudging it daily as he thinks.

It’s been a year to the day since he saw Jaskier.

While this had been his plan all along, or something similar to it, he can’t deny the anxiety that tugs at his heart and twists his stomach. The way it clutches at his lungs and steals his breath with each cloudy exhale into the frozen world. Ashwood buries his hands in the pockets of his thick cloak, hood drawn to hide his ears and eyes, and takes a deep breath. He still can hear, clear as day, the remnants of Jaskier’s fury, his rage at being wronged, and Ashwood can’t fault him for the violence he displayed.

Ashwood stole his innocence, took away the last thing the boy could possibly call his own. He would understand if the child never forgave him for that. The mage takes another deep breath, watching the walls of the keep. He could just portal in, but Eskel informed him that the Pankratz family has hired a new court mage, so any magic he might use to assist him in this endeavor becomes a beacon for his presence. 

He wishes Eskel were here. It was Ashwood’s idea to not have backup, too large of a party would be more visible, but he can’t deny the witcher’s presence to always have a balming effect on the knots that demons tie in his guts. Perhaps he was wrong to undertake this mission alone. Maybe Eskel would have been a boon, as Jaskier is comfortable and familiar with the witcher and has no qualms in his friendship with Eskel.

It’s too late now, however, so Ashwood sets out from the treeline after seeing the guard rotation pass and heads straight to the outer wall. It’s been some time since he’s done this, but he places his gloved hands on the rough hewn stone, using the masonry to slowly scale the turrets.

He climbs over the ramparts and listens for a moment, cocking his head to search for the telltale sounds of rattling armor. When the night remains quiet, he hurries forward: keeping the weight on the balls of his feet to avoid the clicking of his boots as he stealthily descends the stairs of the outer wall. Ashwood steals across the grounds, slipping from shadow to shadow, tree to bush to flower, until he reaches that same servants’ entrance he used the last time he saw Jaskier.

He would say it’s his lucky day, but he knows the manor is almost empty tonight, the lord and lady in attendance of a banquet and the children left with their governesses. Ashwood finds the servants in the kitchen, all sans the court mage, and easily sneaks past their rowdy merrimaking. He slips up the servants stairs, turning slightly to fit his shoulders up the narrow steps, and emerges in the family wing.

The door to Jaskier’s room is ajar, the plucking of a single lute string over and over and over again, sounding despondent and bored. Ashwood gently pushes the door open and inhales sharply. 

Jaskier is laying on his bed with his arm bandaged and leg elevated, stitched shut gashes on his right cheek and temple. His lute lays on the bed beside him and he pulls on a single string as he stares blankly at it, misery etched into every line of his face. His hair is longer and shaggier than when he last saw the boy, down to his chin where it has rough and uneven ends.

“Jaskier,” Ashwood says softly and the boy jumps in surprise, wincing from the pain the sudden movement causes. Jaskier is taller, looking like he was held at either end and stretched a good few inches, no longer the tiny boy Ashwood remembers but starting to veer towards his teenage years.

“Amm-- Ashwood?” Jaskier frowns, pushing himself with his good arm to sit up, “What are you doing here?”

“I…” for all the time he spent thinking about this moment, his plans of his heroic speech, then heartfelt speech, then just an apology; they all fly out the window. His mind is blank and his heart is thrumming through his veins and pounding in his throat. Ashwood swallows thickly, shoving down the anxiety he feels twisting his stomach into knots, “I came back for you.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t allow himself the hope that the mage can see starting to shine, “You left without me. You didn’t want me then, why do you want me now?”

Ashwood steps forward, and when Jaskier doesn’t protest, moves to the edge of the bed and sinks down on it gingerly. He reaches out and gently takes Jaskier’s good hand in his own, “I always wanted you, Jaskier. I still do.” His voice is soft and vaguely pained, “I just couldn’t keep you safe if I took you with me.”

“I wasn’t safe being left behind.”

“I see that now, and I am so sorry, little mongrel,” Ashwood squeezes Jaskier’s hand, “I was so wrong: I thought you would be safer here, even with your father, than out in the world with me. Where we might be tracked by witch hunters, or attacked by anti-magic fanatics. Where there was no stability for you, nowhere for you to call a home.”

Jaskier is quiet before he squeezes Ashwood’s hand back, making the mage lift his eyes to Jaskier’s own. The boy has a small smile dancing on his lips and tears in his eyes, “You were, and always will be, my home, Amma.”

Ashwood’s face crumples and he surges forward, wrapping Jaskier in as tight a hug as he dares. Jaskier hugs him back just as tightly, burying his face into Ashwood’s shoulder and hiccuping as his tears turn to sobs of relief. 

Ashwood isn’t sure where they’re going to go, what they’re going to do; he isn’t sure how to even get Jaskier out, injured as he is, without alerting the court mage that lives in the keep. He’s not even certain if this is the best decision for either of them. There’s one thing that he is sure about, however; one thing that he feels deep in his bones is the correct path for him to take in his long life.

He isn’t leaving his son behind ever again.

> “If your child feels loved, they feel safe. If your child feels loved, they can open up to you. If your child feels loved, they will be courageous in life because they know they have a cushion to fall back on. If there’s one big gift we can give our children [it] is to know that they are truly loved, no matter what.” -Carolina King

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


End file.
